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Part 1

Proctor was not surprised when he heard his name called from the vicinity of the library. He finished putting away the dishes he held in his hand and then walked down the dark hall. The door to the library was ajar, and he pushed it all the way open and stepped in. “Yes?” He did not use the title “Sir” ever when speaking with his employer, an idiosyncrasy left over from his employer’s days in Special Ops and his own days in Special Forces. The simple, automatic use of the word “sir” could have destroyed one’s cover and out of sheer habit was not used in the Pendergast household.

Pendergast sat behind his desk, long pale fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he looked up at the other’s entrance. “Proctor, what is this?” He raised one brow to indicate the small, brown-wrapped package on the desk.

“It came by special courier late this afternoon. I have no other information for you.”

Pendergast regarded him for a moment. “Hmmm,” he said at last. There was just the least bit of speculation, perhaps even skepticism in the simple sound, and Proctor managed to keep the expression from his own face.

It was Proctor’s own hope that the box meant that Pendergast would be out that evening. Out with someone, somewhere. Christmas Eve was no time to be alone, even though he knew the man spent it alone every year. There was nothing even vaguely Scrooge-like about Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, and Proctor knew that quite well. After all, he received the shopping list promptly the day after Thanksgiving, year in and year out, like clockwork. The list was getting longer: a series of dinners at the finer restaurants in Manhattan for the Smithbacks, airfare and a letter for admission to a dig in Peru for Dr. Green, a theatre subscription for Captain Hayward and season’s tickets for Lieutenant D’Agosta, a year’s worth of car maintenance for Corrie Swanson, as the obstinate young lady refused to trade in her vehicle, along with a generous shopping trip to the store of her choice, a basket of green tea and gourmet soups to a woman up in northern Wisconsin, a volume of poetry and a gift card to a music store to a woman addressed simply as “Ms. Tiffany” and who was in graduate school in Connecticut. There were express orders on that last one: “Proctor, should you ever happen to learn the woman’s real name, please be so good as to keep it to yourself. It is not information I should have from you.” Proctor knew better than to question or comment, and had merely agreed. Additionally, there were the usual remembrances to Wren, Mime, the doorman at the Dakota, the Silver Wraith’s mechanic, and on down to the mail carrier and the grocery delivery man. No, nothing Scrooge-like at all. Yet the man insisted on spending Christmas Eve alone, sitting in front of his fire with a glass of brandy, lost in his own reverie. Proctor remembered the few Christmases when Mrs. Pendergast had been alive and he always felt a touch of sadness recalling the laughter and cheer that had been a part of the holidays at that time.

Still, he had hopes for this evening. The package had indeed come by special courier. In fact, she had told Proctor to say exactly that and nothing more. An intriguing woman, Proctor had thought, with masses of dark hair, lively eyes, a quick smile, and a very nice silk scarf about her throat. He had agreed to her request and she had favored him with that same smile. He didn’t know who she was, but he had liked the look of her.

“I suppose I should open it,” Pendergast said, still sounding quite speculative.

“It is Christmas Eve,” Proctor agreed. He moved to leave the room but was stayed by one pale, uplifted hand.

“Wouldn’t you like to see what has arrived by special courier?” he asked. There was just the slightest glint in his pale eyes.

Proctor resumed his position before the desk.

After a moment of absolute stillness, contemplating the box just a bit longer, the agent produced a knife so quickly it could have been up his sleeve and slit open the tape at the bottom of the box. The brown paper fell away, revealing a package wrapped in bright green and red paper, a tiny bow at the top. Pendergast weighed the package in one elegant hand. “Rather too small to be a bomb?” he said hopefully.

“Rather,” said Proctor.

They looked at each other. “Of course, it could still be dangerous.”

“Of course it could.”

Pendergast smiled at him with real affection, a rare, open smile few ever saw. “Proctor, if you thought this was dangerous I would never even have seen it until you had put it through your tests. Who was the courier?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Proctor’s voice was filled with the sincerity born of truth.

“Hmmm,” Pendergast said again. He took the box and unwrapped it, removed the lid, and made a small sound of surprise. He reached in and held up a sprig of mistletoe for his companion to see. “I saw that grin, Proctor. No use trying to hide it now.”

“Mistletoe,” Proctor said. “You have a fan.”

The other regarded him with one eyebrow raised. “What courier agency delivered this?”

“That I could not answer,” Proctor said, again perfectly honest. “I did not see a vehicle and the courier was not wearing a uniform.”

“And yet you believed this was a legitimate delivery?”

“Or you would not have received it.”

Pendergast reached into the box again. “Ah, the mystery unfolds, my dear Watson,” he said, a small twist curving up his mouth in just the hint of a smile.

“Really.”

He held up a small gift card. It said simply “From J.” “Everything is revealed,” he said.

“Indeed.”

Pendergast looked at him suspiciously. “On your honor, my dear man, you did not know the courier?”

Proctor smiled in spite of himself. “On my honor,” he repeated.

The agent leaned back again thoughtfully. “Was Constance quite content spending Christmas with Dr. Green?”

“Yes. They seem to think it fascinating that they have the same name. Dr. Green said Ms. Constance needed to meet still more people with the same name. They left early this afternoon in high spirits.”

“That was uncommonly kind of Dr. Green. And you’re going west for the holiday, leaving as soon as the kitchen is clean. As always.”

“Yes.”

“Very well. The envelope is on your dresser.” He raised a finger to forestall Proctor’s thanks. “No need. You earned it this year, as you do every year. But one thing. I shall require the Wraith tonight. I am going out after all.”

Inside, Proctor was dancing. “I’ll bring it around before I leave.”



Special Agent Cady heard her apartment door lock click open as she wiped down the kitchen counter and felt her heart speed up. She was assuming, of course, and that was just stupid. It didn’t have to be him. It could be some psycho dirtbag who had chosen her apartment as his newest place to pull a machete and have a party. One hand behind her, resting on the Glock in her waistband, she turned and watched as the door opened just as quietly. And then he stepped inside.

She fought to keep her expression neutral. “Agent Pendergast,” she greeted.

He turned his head at her voice. “Agent Cady.”

“You got my message.”

“I did. You may stop fingering your Glock now, unless this is a hostile occasion.”

“We’ll see,” she said with a grin, removing the gun and setting it on the counter. The two of them together should be relatively safe, even unarmed. “Let me take your coat.” She waited for him to strip off the black trench coat and took it, her hand tingling when she brushed against his fingers accidentally. She showed no outward reaction, however, even when she glanced up and found him studying her. “Have a seat.” She gestured at the sofa and went to hang his coat in the closet.

He sat down at one end of the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. “You have wonderful decorations, Cady.” He looked at her. “It’s Christmas Eve. Why are you not with your family?”

“Why are you not with yours?” she retorted.

He inclined his head silently in answer. Touché.

“Would you like some eggnog?”

“I would prefer brandy.”

“Yes, I thought so.” She got his drink, brought it to him, and sat down at the other end of the sofa with a bottled water. There was a sprig of mistletoe on the coffee table and she picked it up, idly twirling it between her fingers.

“Why am I here, Cady?”

She waited a beat. “I wanted to see if you would come,” she said at last, placing the slightest amount of emphasis at the end of the sentence.

Pendergast raised a brow but said nothing. He took a sip of the brandy. “Excellent.”

“Of course it is. You brought it, remember?”

“Yes.” He gazed at her. “And it has been how long?”

“Months. Tacoma was a bore. I lasted about six weeks out there.”

“It was enough time,” he conceded.

“I wasn’t there the whole time, though.” She grinned at him. “I was back about three times to check on you. Did you even know it? Probably not. I kept tabs, especially after the jailbreak. Oh, and I imagine Agent Coffey is quite happy at his new post.”

Pendergast allowed himself a sour smile. “Let’s not talk shop,” he said.

“What shall we discuss?” She looked at him directly and leaned forward slightly, the better to allow her low buttoned blouse to fall slightly open.

The gesture was not wasted. “Anything you choose,” he said.

“I saw her,” Cady said after a long moment of silence.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your Egyptologist. I saw her with you at the Museum.”

His expression grew guarded. He said nothing.

“She’s quite gorgeous, isn’t she? All that dark hair. And a really lovely face. Not to mention a title after her name. You certainly don’t slum much, do you?”

He stared at her, a small spot of pink coming onto each cheekbone. Cady recognized the reaction and wanted to laugh but she stopped herself. “My dear Agent Cady,” he began in his frostiest tones.

“Oh, knock it off, Wish. Lady Viola Maskalene, eh? Island of Capraia? Egyptologist. Landed gentry. Drop dead gorgeous. Have you picked the church yet?” She looked up when he rose, movements abrupt but graceful as ever. “Sorry. Did I hit a nerve?”

“Agent Cady, I don’t know why you wanted to see me tonight, but I did come here expecting at least the semblance of a civil evening. This fishing of yours—”

“I’m not fishing, Wish. I already know all about her. I work for the FBI, you know.” She finally laughed at the expression on his face.

“I should go,” he said stiffly, placing the brandy snifter on the cocktail table with a firm clink.

“No, you shouldn’t,” she said softly.

He turned at that. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Why did you come here in the first place? Curiosity? Or something else?”

He didn’t answer.

“Wish, I sent you mistletoe. Mistletoe.” She held up the bit of holiday greenery in her hand and then set in on the sofa cushion beside her. “I wanted to see what you would do. Call me from a prepaid cell phone, maybe. Send me a telegram. Ignore me. You didn’t do any of those. You came here. You even picked my lock, as always. Why is that?” She stood up and walked over to him, face to face. He didn’t back away. “Maybe incomplete business?”

He stared down at her a moment longer, then sighed. “Cady, these games—”

She grabbed his face between her hands, pulling him down toward her, and stopped him with a kiss, pressing against him, waiting to see what he would do even as she felt herself rising to his touch.

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